


Swan Song

by Writegirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Scene, Bonding, Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, F/M, Missing Scene, POV Sandor Clegane, POV Sansa Stark, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Post-Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-07 05:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18614299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writegirl/pseuds/Writegirl
Summary: Sansa was tired to her bones.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I loved the Sansa/Theon scenes in the show, but I've been waiting five years to see Sandor and Sansa together again, and I just couldn't wait anymore.

          Winterfell. 

          Fucking Winterfell. 

          Sandor Clegane took a long pull from the wineskin he lifted from the kitchens. It wasn’t a Dornish sour. Hell, he wasn’t sure what he was drinking could even be called wine, but it was doing the job well enough. The cold that seemed to sink into his bones and set his leg to aching had faded just enough, and the thought that he was going to die in a few hours wasn’t beating at him as hard. 

          With a deep sigh, Sandor looked up. There were no clouds for once. The sky was a deep, endless black littered with stars, the moon a pale sliver on the horizon. Pretty, if you liked that sort of thing. He preferred the blue of a summer sky. Maybe then he wouldn’t be sitting on a frozen wall drinking a piss-poor excuse for wine waiting for the world to end. 

          It was enough to make him laugh. He always thought he’d die trying to kill his cunt of a brother. On his best days, he hoped he did so taking the bastard with him. Maybe he’d be cut down fighting for the Lannisters in some stupid war he couldn’t give two shits about, or a whore would knife him for his coin while his britches were around his ankles. In none of his imaginings did he see himself dying at Winterfell, fighting against creatures that should have been eight thousand years gone. 

          Sandor snorted and took another drink as light footsteps approached. When had something ever turned out the way he thought it would? He kept his eyes fixed forward, his shoulders tight, as the steps grew closer. Probably one of the younger boys pressed into guard duty, making themselves feel useful by manning the walls and looking out for the dead. Or some old cunt wanting to talk about better days. If he was going to die by morning, he wanted to spend his last hours the way he spent most of his life: alone. 

          “You’ve been avoiding me.” 

          Sandor looked up so fast he swore he heard the bones of his neck crack. It wasn’t a boy standing over him, or an old man. Hells, it wasn’t even Dondarrion come to give a final sermon. It was the last person he expected. The last person he thought wanted to see him. His muscles tensed as he prepared to rise, but something in him made him stay exactly where he was. He wasn’t going to put on airs like some bloody fool or pretend to be something he wasn’t. 

          The Sansa Stark standing next to him was a far cry from the one that haunted his memory. A lifetime ago he’d never seen the girl in anything darker than the color of spring leaves. There were no bright silks or elaborate braids for her now, no glow of youth or blush of innocence. Her clothes could have been hewn from the dark stone and hard earth of Winterfell. The black of her clothes made her nearly disappear against the sky. Her skin was still unblemished and pale, but now she looked to be carved from ice, cold and unrelenting. Thick fur ruffled at her shoulders, tangling with the fire of her hair, and for a moment it made her look a wild thing. 

          “The servants spoke of a man with a burned face,” Sansa continued when he didn’t answer, back straight as she stared into the night. “I thought you might have been one of the Reachmen who survived the Queen’s attack, but then Lord Royce told me that he swore he saw the Hound in one of the inner baileys helping unload dragon glass.” Her chin dipped. “I wanted to give you time, but it seems that’s something we don’t have.” 

          Her voice wasn’t the same. In King’s Landing, it was always honey sweet and trembling, moments away from being filled with tears. It was deeper now, hard and cold like velvet covered steel. Sandor shrugged and focused on the barrels in front of him. “Didn’t think the Lady of Winterfell wanted anything to do with the likes of me.” 

          “You’d be surprised what the Lady of Winterfell wants.” 

          His shoulders heaved with something that might have been a laugh. “Probably for everyone to leave her alone for five fucking minutes.” He flicked a hand. “I haven’t gone ten minutes without someone going on about how they needed to ask Lady Stark about something.” He took her in from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head. “Looks like you’re not a little bird anymore.” 

          “None of us are who we were anymore,” she countered, finally turning to face him. 

          He wasn’t used to her scrutiny. The Sansa of King’s Landing avoided looking anyone in the eye. It was one of the things he hated the most, watching her eyes slide away to focus on the floor or just past his shoulder. The only time she looked at him, truly looked at him, was the Battle of Blackwater. Now her gaze was fixed on him, silver-blue eyes cataloging his every breath. 

          “Arya said you took care of her after you left the Brotherhood. You traveled together for weeks until you were separated.” 

          “Until she left me for dead, you mean,” he grumbled. 

          Her head tilted slightly. “If Arya wanted you dead, she would have slit your throat,” Sansa said the words with conviction. “I don’t think you were on her list by then.” 

          “That fucking list.” How many times had he heard her whispering it in the night when the little wolf thought he couldn’t hear? Enough so he could say the names himself if he thought about it. He hadn’t minded, not really. If dreams of killing kept the girl alive, he’d let her keep her list. The Stranger knew some days the thought of killing his brother was all that kept him moving. He glanced around. “Where is the little wolf girl, anyway? Thought she’d be the one to find me up here.” He’d thought he’d have a sword through the eye by now, with the way the girl promised to do it. 

          “Arya’s lurking around somewhere.” She looked up to the rooftops, scanning them for a moment before turning back to him. “I’m sure you’ll see her before the end.” She squared her shoulders and inclined her head. “Thank you, for taking care of her.” 

          He shrugged. “Girl would’ve got herself killed otherwise.” 

          Sansa stepped over his leg and settled on the barrels across from him, hands folded primly in her lap. She nodded to the wineskin before she reached out, expectant. He passed her the skin, his eyes to widening when she tipped it up and took a swallow large enough for him to see the column of her throat move in the dim light. She grimaced as she capped it and passed it back. 

          “That is awful.” Her voice was thick from the wine. 

          “It’s what I could get from the kitchens.” He shrugged and took a drink, fighting down the thought that her lips had been on the spout moments before. “Does the job.” 

          Sansa made a small sound of agreement and heaved in a breath. “What are your plans for the future, Lord Clegane?” 

          His mouth twisted. “Cold must have addled your wits, girl. I’m no more a lord than I am a ser. And it’s not like we have a future, anyway.” They both knew what they faced. Like as not they’d all be dead by morning. Made no sense thinking on things that would never come to pass. 

          She tilted her head, staring down at him in a way that made him look away. “You haven’t thought at all about what you want if you survive all this? You traveled beyond the Wall with my brother to capture a wight, carried it with him to King’s Landing knowing full well Cersei could have called for your head as a deserter, and you’re here now, willing to fight and die for the North. You think I or my brother would let that go unrewarded?” 

          “Didn’t do it for a fucking reward.” Sandor looked at the wineskin. “This Northern piss must be stronger than I thought to have you spouting shit like that.” 

          “So, you don’t want a keep?” she pressed. “Good lands?” 

          “Aye. And a bunch of whining smallfolk driving me half mad for the rest of my fucking life.” 

          Sansa laughed, the sound clear and bell-like. It transformed her face. Softened the hard marble and gave some color to her cheeks. He couldn’t recall ever hearing her laugh before. 

          “For what it’s worth, Sandor Clegane, if we survive, I think you’d make a wonderful lord.” Her eyes clouded. “You were a better knight without saying the words than almost every knight I’ve ever met.” She turned away from him again, her gaze focused somewhere in the night. “Jon said you saw the Mountain in King’s Landing. I’m sorry you won’t get to kill him like you wanted. I know how freeing it can be, to kill the one who tormented you.” 

          “Sansa…” He’d heard the stories about the Bolton bastard, what few the people were willing to tell. Most seemed to want to forget he ever existed. “The wildling said you fed the bastard to his own dogs.” 

          “I did.” There was no velvet over the steel in her voice then. “He deserved worse, but I thought it was fitting. He took such pride in them.” There was nothing gentle about the smile that crept over her face, wide enough from him to see a glimmer of teeth. “I kept the hounds alive long enough to shit him out.” 

          Sandor laughed at that, the sharp sound carrying into the night as he passed her the wineskin. It gentled something in her expression, made some of the light return to her eyes. 

          “Heard Littlefucker’s dead, too.” 

          Another look of satisfaction settled on her face. “Arya slit his throat in the great hall.” She took a swallow of wine large enough to make his eyebrow twitch before capping it and handing it back. “He was on his knees, begging me for mercy and plotting all the while to tear us apart.” Her tone said that was the stupidest thing Littlefinger could have done. 

          “Looks like neither of you needs the likes of me anymore.” He’d told her once to learn to defend herself or die and get out of the way of those who could. It looked like she’d finally taken his advice. 

          They sat in silence for long minutes, neither looking at the other. His perch on the battlements was the furthest he could find from the forges, away from the smell of smoke and steel and the shouts of men. It was almost peaceful. 

          “I kept it, you know.” The words were so soft he barely heard them. 

          Sandor frowned. “Kept what?” 

          “The cloak.” Sansa stared into the darkness. “The one from the throne room. I mended the tears and hid it in the bottom of my trunk. After you left, when I was alone, I would wrap myself in it.” Her mouth tried to curl into a smile, but it looked like it pained her. “I would imagine you were there, outside the door or around a corner…always just out of sight. For the longest time, it was the only thing that made me feel safe.” She breathed in deeply, her gaze faltering to her feet. “It’s the only thing I regret leaving when I fled King’s Landing.” After a moment her eyes locked on his. “I should have gone with you that night.” 

          _Yes, you should have. _He swallowed the words back, grateful that he managed them. She knew it, she didn’t need to hear it from him. He passed her the wineskin. “You thought you’d be safe.”__

__“I would have been safe with you.” The conviction in her voice warmed him more than the wine. “But I was a stupid little girl, always waiting on others to save me.” She should have sounded bitter. Another person might have, but the girl almost sounded amused as she heaved a sigh. “First my father, then my brother…Ser Dontos, Baelish. The one man who wanted to, not because of family or my name, I refused. They’re all dead now, and I’m home, sitting on the ramparts sharing a wineskin with one of the most dangerous killers in Westeros waiting for the war to come to us.” She took another swallow._ _

__“Freezing our arses off,” he grumbled, but at the moment there was nowhere else he’d rather be._ _

__“You chose the spot.” She stood and stared down at him, eyes glittering, before she held out her hand._ _

__Sandor stared at her hand like he would a viper. Like a pool of cool water in a desert. He worked his throat. The damn thing had gone dryer than the Dornish wastes. “What are you doing, girl?” he finally managed to croak._ _

__Sansa shook her head as if he’d said something incredibly stupid. “We could die tonight. Is this where you want to spend your last hours?”_ _

__Sandor stared at the pale fingers, mouth dry and mind blank. Sana stood there unmoving, a woman carved from marble and fire. She was close enough that the hem of her cloak brushed the rough fabric of his britches. A breeze kicked up then, bringing with it the smell of cold and stone, wood smoke and pine. Underneath it all was the faintest hint of flowers. Not sweet, like the soaps she once used in King’s Landing, but something earthy. Something that lingered on the back of the tongue. When he didn’t move her fingers wiggled, as if he were a pet she was tempting to come._ _

__He took her hand._ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For tlmfe23, who wanted another chapter :)
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter 2 Warnings: Brief allusion to spousal abuse (the Ramsay Bolton tag is in effect so...yeah...) Brief scene including panic attack and flashback. Both are near the end, so please be aware.

          Sansa was tired to her bones.  


          She squinted at the window letting weak light into the great hall, trying to judge the time of day. Midday, perhaps, if she chose to guess.  


          It was still hard for her to believe, that they survived. That after all the years had taken from them her family managed to come through the Long Night without losing anyone else. The moments in the crypt after the dead stilled (her family, her kin, killing those who sought their home for protection) were the most terrifying. The silence after hours of screams was deafening, and she feared what it meant. She refused to open the doors until she heard Jon’s voice saying that it was all right, that they won.  


          The battle was hours done, but none rested. Winterfell was in shambles, the home she grew up in and so longed to return to devastated in a way Ramsey could only have dreamed of. Whole towers were nothing more than rubble, the ceilings of several smaller buildings were caved in, and more than a few structures Maester Wolkan declared completely off limits.  


          She spent the hours after dawn organizing the movement of supplies and men, taking stock of the damage and trying to take care of the wounded. The keep and great hall was the least damaged building aside from the barracks, and both were turned into makeshift surgeries. She lost count of the hours she spent bending over soldiers known and unknown, cleaning and cauterizing wounds. More than once she had to help Maester Wolkan as he amputated an arm or leg. Blood crusted under her nails no matter how she scrubbed with the lye soap the maester insisted all those who touched the wounded use, and the sickly sweet copper tang of it coated her tongue.  


          After the wounded the dead were the priority. Even with the deep cold they could not be allowed to remain within Winterfell or the surrounding grounds lest sickness spread to the survivors. The corpses were dragged out of the castle and onto the flat plains where Drogon set them alight. The sky to the north was dark with greasy smoke, the smell of charred flesh so heavy in the air that she doubted she’d ever get the scent out of her nose.  


          And still, she had not seen him.  


          Every time the doors to the great hall opened Sansa stood, hoping, praying as she hadn’t since before she left Winterfell as a girl for it to be Sandor. Stumbling, limping, crawling, she didn’t care so long as he was alive. Every time, she was disappointed. Once, she would have run through the castle searching for him, ignoring everything but her need to know he was safe. Now she knew her duty was to the people left torn and cleaved in defense of her home, and she would see to them as well as she was able.  


          There were far too few for her liking.  


          No Dothraki came into the surgeries, and she thought of their charge into the darkness, their flaming swords extinguished in what felt like seconds. Some of her patients were Unsullied, but more of them died than lived. Unlike the others who were often left alone once in the surgery, one of their brothers always hovered nearby while they were treated. If it was determined they would live, they were left alone to recover. Those that died had their armor and weapons stripped away immediately, the bodies left in their smallclothes for the women and young boys to move outdoors. She watched Grey Worm as he performed the grim duty only once, struck by how young the corpse was. Despite the muscles and scarring that spoke of the life he led the boy looked no older than Bran.  


          “Do you have no words for your dead?” she asked, looking out at the barracks. They had no septons or septas, but those that followed the Old Gods often paused to say a word of farewell for the fallen. To close eyes and try to lend the dead some peace. She found herself doing it almost without thought, the prayers of her father soft and comforting on her tongue.  


          Grey Worm’s expression never wavered. “The dead need no words,” he answered in his strange, lilting accent.  


          A rattling cough drew Sansa from her thoughts. A few pallets away Maester Wolkan knelt over one of the soldiers recently brought in, his gambeson pierced in multiple places, his face pale and waxy. He drew another slow, rattling breath as Arya crept up and knelt beside the maester. Wolkan looked to her sister and gave a small nod.  


          Sansa looked away as her sister’s arm moved. She never saw the dagger, she didn’t think anyone did, but the man gave a last rattling breath before going limp. Arya closed his eyes, stood, and walked away, her gaze fixed on the next man. As she passed one of the Free Folk his hand came out and touched her leg before saying something Sansa couldn’t hear. She remembered him. The maester had to amputate both his legs below the knee.  


          “You should sleep.”  


          Sansa half-turned. Tormund was a step behind her, eyes following Arya. The large man’s right arm was in a hastily made sling, his shoulder dislocated during the battle by falling rubble. “So should you.”  


          He gave a halfhearted laugh. “Things I’ve seen, I doubt I’ll sleep for a week at least.” He nodded his head to where Arya knelt over one of his people. After a moment the injured man gave her a small nod. The labored movements of his chest eased, and with a final look, her sister stood and moved on to the next. She passed a group of Free Folk women leaning against a wall, resting before going out to find more injured. As Arya passed they whispered a word in their strange tongue.  


          “What are they saying?” she asked Tormund. For hours now she heard the same word whispered in reverence again and again, always in Arya's passing.  


          “They are calling her Mercy,” he explained. “Better to die quickly than be left to linger.”  


          Sansa could say nothing to that. She was going to ask Tormund how the rest of his people fared when the doors to the hall opened and her heart leapt in her throat. Another injured man was brought in, but this one was too short to be Sandor, and she couldn’t hide her disappointment.  


          Tormund's gaze followed hers. “You looking for someone?” he asked.  


          “An old friend.” Sansa felt tears gather in her eyes and was startled. After everything, she didn't think herself capable of them. “We found each other again last night, and I’ve yet to see him.”  


          His eyes softened. “There’s plenty left out there needs seeing to,” he said in his gruff voice. “If he’s alive, he’ll be found.”  


          It was cold comfort, but it was all she would get.  


          Sometime later Tyrion came to her with bread and soup, demanding she eat. “You’re no good to them if you fall and hit your pretty head,” he said when she eyed the cup with misgivings. He was wearing the same clothes as the night before, face just as haggard as her own. When she opened her mouth to complain he held up a hand. "On the order of your queen... and your brother."  


          She bristled at the first out of habit but relented at the second. “Only a moment,” she warned him.  


          A path was cleared outside the great hall, a vein of clear ground snaking through the courtyard. The piles of rubble on either side made for hard seats, but it was better than trying to drag herself to the upper floors. Tyrion spoke as she ate. Relayed their numbers, those he knew about living and dead. Some deaths she knew of, others she did not. Lord Rohyce was alive, well protected by his men as they planned. The news of both Ser Jorah and Lady Lyanna broke her heart. Another northern house extinguished.  


          “She was the one who named Jon king.” Sansa smiled at the memory. “I think the other lords were too afraid of her to disagree.”  


          “She was forceful for one so young,” Tyrion agreed with a heavy sigh. "If the rumors are to be believed, she died taking down a giant."  


          Sansa's smile widened, though it felt a foreign thing. Lyanna _would_ die slaying a giant. She couldn't imagine the girl meeting her end any other way. 

          She was about to ask after the state of the outer walls when a group of men passed and her attention was torn away, eyes desperately searching. The disappointment she felt when none of them proved to be Sandor weighed her shoulders down.  


          "He’s alive, you know.” Tyrion’s voice was quiet.  


          Sansa froze, the cup gripped hard in her hands.  


          “Clegane is too stubborn to die,” her ex-husband continued as he settled himself heavily on his pile of rubble. “He’s survived this long I doubt anything short of the Stranger himself could kill him.”  


          She settled her cup in her lap, her soup a heavy stone in her stomach. “Tyrion-“  


          “Tormund came to me. He told me you were looking for an old friend. Since both Varys and I were with you in the crypts, the list of people you could have been talking about is rather small.”  


          Sansa watched Tyrion as he stood, his expression one of cautious curiosity. It was one she remembered well from King’s Landing. One he often wore when attempting to puzzle out how best to broach a subject with her. She swallowed as she thought back to their conversation in the crypts. His suggestion that they should remain married. She condemned any continuation of their marriage because of his divided loyalties.  


          Never did she think to mention her own.  


          Tyrion reached out and took her hand, gently prying it away from her half-empty cup of soup. “If I see him, I will send him to you.” It was one of the few times in her life she could recall him being completely sincere.  


          Relief and sadness flooded her in equal measure. “Thank you, Tyrion.”  


          He gave her a pained smile, but his fingers squeezed hers before he made his way through the busy courtyard.  


          After her meal, Sansa worked until she could barely lift her arms. Until the blood of others stained her hands dark pink and her vision blurred when she lost concentration. Her world became nothing but the bodies under her hands, the fight to keep those who survived the battle alive and the hollow coldness when death won. It was Ser Davos who found her in that state, forehead leaning against the rough wood of the doors somewhere between asleep and awake as the cold night closed around her.  


          It was not a pleasant moment.  


          She took off her heavy cloak hours ago when she began working with the injured, her leather vest after she grew tired of the way it dug into her when she had to bend, so she was only in her woolen underdress, the sleeves pushed up past her elbows.  


          Sansa didn’t hear his quiet, “My Lady”. She was only aware of the smell of blood, the sounds of pain and the acrid scent of charred wood. Only aware of the heat of a hand touching her without her explicit permission, and she could well remember the last time that happened.  


          _My beloved wife. I’ve missed you terribly._  


          Sansa whirled; hands raised to fend off blows she was sure would fall, breath trapped in her lungs. Ramsay loved to surprise her with where he would hit her next. He never struck her face, though. _Have to keep that mouth pretty for my cock._  


          The hand grabbed at her wrist, and she pulled away with a quiet cry. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t think. All she knew was she had to get away. Her feet slipped on the steps, and then she was tumbling into nothingness.  


          _Easy, Sansa. Easy._  


          Thick arms wrapped around her and brought her into a wide chest, halting her fall. She fought against them, throwing herself forward. She wouldn’t scream, he liked it when she screamed...  


          “It’s all right, Little Bird. You’re all right.” The words rumbled against her back, soothing and familiar. Sansa’s teeth chattered so hard her head hurt, but the words made sense. Her lungs burned, and she panted as if she’d run around the Godswood. Slowly she became aware of voices speaking over her head.  


          “…mean to scare her.”  


          “You’re lucky her sister’s not here. The little wolf would-“  


          “The little wolf would what?”  


          Arya’s voice was colder than the surrounding air and several things snapped into focus for Sansa at once. Sandor was standing behind her, his arms wrapped around her middle the only thing keeping her upright, while Ser Davos stood in the doorway to the great hall, face drawn with concern. She couldn’t see herself, but Sansa was sure she was pale as the new-fallen snow around them, bent over Sandor’s arms as if trying to escape.  


          “I’m…” Sansa’s voice cracked. She drew herself up, and after tightening his hold for a moment Sandor released her and stepped back. “I’m fine, Arya,” she said, pleased when her voice came out sure and steady.  


          Arya watched her with hooded eyes, hand on the hilt of her dagger. Her gaze went to Sandor, then Davos before she looked to her sister. “Maester Wolkan says you’ve been working since the battle ended,” she told her, voice placid as if the scene she interrupted were entirely normal. “He doesn’t want to see you in the great hall or the barracks before dawn tomorrow.” She gave Clegane another unreadable look and turned to the older man. “Ser Davos,” she said with a small nod before walking away, soundless as a shadow.  


          Davos watched her go for a moment before turning back to Sansa. “That’s actually what I came to tell you, my Lady,” he said. “We’ve enough hands to see to everyone for a few hours. There’s no reason for you to linger down here. You need to rest.”  


          She felt her spine stiffen. She wasn’t a child to be looked after by those more knowledgeable.  


          “You heard your sister,” Sandor interrupted before she could protest. “You walk in there, and Wolkan'll probably dose you with something.”  


          “Besides, it was your brother told me to find you and make sure you weren’t working yourself to death.” The Onion Knight looked too tired for amusement, but something of it was there in his eyes. “He wasn’t certain you listened to him either time he tried.”  


          Sansa frowned. She had a vague memory of Jon coming into the barracks and asking when she planned to rest, then again after her meal with Tyrion. She couldn’t remember her answers.  


          Her confusion must have been plain on her face because the knight's expression went soft in a way that reminded her too much of her father. “The main keep was spared most of the damage. Jon said he’s had water for washing and food sent to your rooms.” Davos extended a hand, careful to keep a good distance from her. “If you’ll come with me, my-”  


          “I’ll see to her,” Sandor said.  


          In the dim light, Sansa could see the set of Ser Davos’s jaw. She knew the Hound's reputation, had once believed the way he barked and snapped, and no one with any sense would leave a lady in his care. It was all there in the knight's gaze, and she could imagine the glare Sandor was giving him in return. “Sandor Clegane was one of two people who cared for my welfare in King’s Landing,” Sansa said before either man could speak. “I trust him with my life. So does my sister, or she would still be here.”  


          Davos looked from her to where she imagined Sandor’s eyes were. She called up every inch of her height, banishing as much of the weakness of the minutes before as she could. She was the Lady of Winterfell, and she would not be gainsaid in her own castle. It was exhausting, but after another moment’s scrutiny, the knight’s shoulders fell as he relented. “My Lady,” he said with a short bow. “Clegane.”  


          She watched him walk away, no doubt to find his own bed, before turning around. Her eyes climbed him slowly, starting at the scuffed boots and working northward, the details running together until she found something to focus on.  


          There was a cut over his eye, a messy thing that disappeared into his hair. What she thought was a scrape teased the skin near his left eye, but it might have been a trick of the light. They were the only visible wounds she could see, but that wasn’t saying much when he appeared to be covered in soot. His clothes were torn in places and stank of death and char.  


          "I looked for you." 

          “They had me clearing the dead,” he grumbled into the silence. “Spent the whole fucking day outside the walls until Tyrion found me.”  


          Sansa stepped forward, one trembling hand going to his chest and running up to his shoulder, finger sliding under his jerkin and teasing the rough cloth beneath. Sandor watched her with the same look he had the night before; as if he were afraid to move lest he frighten her away. It would make her laugh if she had the energy. Of all the frightening things she’d seen in the world, all the frightening things she’d done and had done to her, he was the least among them. She stepped forward and rested her forehead against him. The metal buttons of his jerkin were ice-cold against her skin, she was sure her face was being stained with things she rather not think on, but he was here. He was here and whole and alive.  


          After a moment she felt him shift as his arms rose to wrap around her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I know that this is very Sansa dialogue heavy, but that's how I imagine a reunion between them would be. Sandor's not very loquacious, and I think Sansa would have a lot she'd want to get off her chest where he's concerned.
> 
> A swan song is a phrase for a final gesture or effort given just before death based on the belief that swans sing one beautiful song right before they die. 
> 
> The comment about learning to defend herself or dying is lifted from Martin.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed :)


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